


A Perfect Storm

by a_nonny_moose



Series: My AU [17]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 02:57:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14095602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: Inspired by War by Icon for Hire, prompted by juju-on-that-yeet via Tumblr.This is how Wilford and Dark break down.





	A Perfect Storm

_You and I go deep like water  
You and I run red like blood_

“Ow!”

“Would you stop—stop moving,” Dark hissed, pushing Wilford back. 

Wilford slumped against the wall, breathing hard, teeth grit against the pain. “Hurry up, would you?”

“This is entirely not my fault.”

“That’s a bold-faced lie.”

Dark didn’t respond, jerking at a knot, and Wilford hissed. 

“Are you done?”

“Fine.” 

Wilford chanced a look at his arm, bound in a sling and wrapped with bloodstained gauze. 

“Stand up.” Dark rose from squatting over Wilford to standing, holding out a helping hand.

Wilford grunted, taking Dark’s hand with his good arm, and the two of them hauled him to his feet. 

“Dizzy,” Wilford muttered, a warning all too familiar in the back of his throat. 

Dark nodded, looking around them. The back alley was shadowed and stained, but it was safe enough to retreat to, safe enough to stop in, wrap Wilford’s arm before they started moving again. A moment more, a moment too long, even if they could afford it. “Ready?”

Wilford pushed himself off the wall, holding his side stiff. “Ready.”

“Hold on.” Dark checked behind them, eyeing the shadows. He waited until Wilford’s shaking fingers had found the crook of his arm, holding on tight to the sleeve of the worn black hoodie. 

A whirl of black smoke, a shock wave through the alleyway, and the two of them were gone. 

* * *

_You know my darkest secrets  
I know what you’re made of_

* * *

“You had _what_?”

Wilford listed them off as he leaned against the counter, knife twirling. “Two affairs, a handful of murders, not to mention my reporting career…”

“Uh-huh.” Dark listened to Wilford ramble on as he hacked their latest corpse to pieces, blood flying up into his face. _Thwack. Thwack._

“…and there _was_ that one lawyer…”

_Thwack. Thwack._

“…and sometimes I wonder—” Wilford cut himself off, feeling a splat of still-warm blood hit his cheek. “Er, Darky?”

“What?” Dark glanced up, knife buried hilt-deep in what used to be a human shoulder. “What is it, Wilford?”

“Are you—”

“Don’t.” Dark looked away, wrenching his knife loose from the body. The feeling of unease, as if he was thrust into the only spotlight in a silent theater.

Wilford didn’t bother pressing the subject, looking back down at their victim. Blood was pooling steadily on the kitchen floor, somewhere between liquid and solid, coagulating. He stepped in it, and it clung to his shoe, like half-cooled wax. _Thwack._

Dark took a half step away from the table, clenching and unclenching his fists. The sound of Wilford hacking away with a decidedly more solid hit to his knife was little, if any, consolation to what was running through his mind. 

A crunching, like the shattering of glass against cement, and Wilford pulled an arm away from what was left of the torso. “Need a hand, Darky?”

“Stop calling me that,” Dark muttered, automatic.

“Mm-hmm,” Wilford hummed, carelessly throwing the arm into its designated bag. A wet _squelch_ , the shifting of bone, and more blood wound its way across the floor. Wilford barely noticed, starting on a leg.

_Thwack. Thwack._

With a deep sigh, Dark focused on his side of the body again. Carefully, he settled the tip of his own knife against the shoulder. He could _see_ it, the slippery tendons that held the joint together. One good hit, and—

“What’re you doing?”

Wilford’s voice was urgent enough to catch Dark’s full attention, head snapping around, aura already at his shoulders. “What?”

“That.” Wilford pointed at Dark’s knife, one hand poised to slam it, tip first, into the bone. “You’ll break something that way.”

Dark dropped the knife to the table in frustration, growling, “that’s the point, isn’t it?”

Wilford shuffled around the table, shouldering Dark aside. Dark sidestepped him, looking over at what he was doing. 

“Look,” Wilford huffed through his mustache, tucking his own weapon into his waistband. “If you use the breadth of the knife, the blunt force makes it a lot easier.” He raised the knife, blade gleaming, and started hacking. 

Dark waited, feeling the blood fleck onto his face, watching Wilford drop his knife into the body with the crunch of bone and what seemed like far too much enjoyment. 

“Here.” Wilford handed him the knife, handle warm from exertion. “You do it.”

Wilford moved away, Dark silent. 

_Thwack, thwack,_ and companionable silence.

* * *

_Drip drop the rain is falling  
I hear it all could flood_

* * *

“You can’t just _do_ this.”

“Get out of my face.”

“Dark, I—”

“Will.” Dark whipped around, teeth bared, eyes blackened. “Why can’t you just. Leave. Me. Alone.”

Wilford, undaunted, jabbed a finger at the smoke coiling around Dark’s shoulders. “You can’t just shut me out.”

“Yeah?” Something flickered in Dark’s face, a hard smile. “Watch me.” He turned again, about to stalk into his room and close the door in Wilford’s face. 

“Stop.” Wilford grabbed blindly, catching Dark by the sleeve. “Stop and fucking _listen_ to me.”

“Let go of me.” Dark froze, eyes lowered. 

“Not until—”

“I have better things to do than listen to you grovel, Will.” Dark shook him off, hard, glaring. 

Wilford stepped back, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “You’re an idiot, Dark.”

“I’m doing what’s best,” Dark muttered, hand on the doorknob.

“And what’s that?” Wilford’s hand was at his hip, a twitch away from drawing a gun. “Not telling me about your fantastic plans, leaving your partner behind, throwing yourself into a river—”

Dark slammed the door shut, an inch from Wilford’s nose.

From inside his room, a drawn-out scream, the sound of draining water, and silence. 

* * *

_One rainy night away  
From losing all you love_

* * *

“Dark?” Wilford knocked on the door, the sound light against bruised knuckles. “Did you want breakfast?”

There was no response, nothing out of the ordinary, and Wilford shrugged. Sleeping in, or else ignoring him. Dark was never much for breakfast, anyway, and Wilford went back to flipping eggs. 

An hour, then two hours, then three hours. Wilford knocked again, beginning to wonder, beginning to get bored. “Da-ark, are you even in there?”

As if in response, his knock swung the door open. Wilford poked his head into the room, looking around: this felt like an invasion of privacy. 

The bed was made, straight, unwrinkled sheets. It hadn’t been slept in. Wilford took a step further in, looking around. “Darkipoo, if this is a joke, it isn’t very funny.”

Silence, not even Dark’s derisive snort to break the stillness. 

Wilford swallowed what misgivings he had. Dark had left before, had left without telling him before. He’d wait, and Dark would come back. Dark always came back.

A day, then two, then three. Wilford was still alone, calling Dark’s phone every other hour.

“Dark? It’s me, Will. Call me back when you can, you insufferable leech.”

“Hey, it’s Wilford. I set the stove on fire, you better hurry back.”

“You’re a real piece of work, y’know that? Our arrest warrant—the one from April—just came in the mail. You are _not_ leaving me to deal with this alone.”

“Hey, hardass. At least text me and tell me what’s up.”

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you _fuck you **fuck you**_ —"

“ _This user’s voicemail box is full. Please try again.”_

Wilford’s phone cracked where it hit the wall, clattering to the floor with the protest of glass. Wilford turned away, muttering to himself, pacing. Dark had been gone this long before, but never without leaving… something. A note, a text. Anything. 

Lightning flashed outside, the drizzle from the past few days finally evolving into a proper storm. Wilford didn’t want to think about where Dark was, feeling thunder rattle at the windows. Maybe he, Wilford, would go make a sandwich. He wouldn’t worry. He wouldn’t care, just like Dark did, about everything.

He was almost in the hallway, on the way to the kitchen, when the phone buzzed against the floor. Wilford jumped over the couch, crashing on top of the coffee table, to get to it. “Hello?”

“Will.”

“Dark, where the hell—”

“Just, can you open the door?” Dark’s voice came over the line, crackling, wheezing. “Please.”

Wilford ran again, furniture pushed out of the way with the pink splash of his aura, a tornado rattling against the walls. “The door? Dark, you’re not—” 

He didn’t finish the sentence before he flung the door open, horrified to think about how it would end. 

“Took you long enough.”

It took all of Wilford’s willpower not to scream, phone flung aside again to catch Dark as he fell. 

Lightning flashed again, Wilford staggering under Dark’s sopping wet weight. He slammed the door, dragging Dark in to collapse on the couch. “Are you—are you hurt?”

“Mmph.” Dark sagged horribly, unnaturally limp, and Wilford had the sudden, flashing realization that Dark’s clothes weren’t wet with rainwater, but blackened blood.

“Lie down,” Wilford commanded, roughly pushing Dark into a more comfortable position. “I’ll be right back.”

Dark didn’t protest, blood seeping from his mouth, and watched Wilford go. 

Wilford rummaged for their first-aid kit and spare t-shirts, any resentment that he’d had fading away in the paling face of his best friend. _Hurry, hurry_ , and the rumble of thunder. 

“Where?” Wilford dropped to his knees in front of the couch, supplies spread out on the living room floor. 

Dark struggled to sit up, breathing hard, and Wilford was over him in an instant. “Just tell me.”

Dark glared, spitting blood. “Stomach.” 

“What the _fu_ —”

“Just—” Dark leaned his head back, a wave of pain. “Just fix it.” _Fix me._

Carefully, Wilford ripped the spare cloth into strips, trying not to look at Dark’s exposed torso. Parallel gashes, black blood against graying skin. “What happened?” He said it low enough that Dark could choose not to respond, weak as he was. Curiosity ate Wilford alive most of the time, but this was not most of the time.

Dark spoke anyway, staring up at the ceiling with every muscle in his body straining, shaking. “The fans.” The rumble of thunder, the flickering of lights.

Wilford nearly dropped the fabric, fumbling. “They—you mean—”

“They’re getting… ideas.” Dark hissed, lifting his hips so Wilford could pass the makeshift bandage around his waist. “They’re making… things.”

“Things?” Wilford tried not to imagine what could’ve made gashes that wouldn’t stop bleeding, what could’ve beaten Dark into a pulp. “Monsters?” 

Dark coughed, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. Wilford held him back against the couch with a free hand, brow furrowing. Dark wiped his face, and Wilford swallowed, seeing Dark’s hands already stained with blood that was almost certainly not his own. “Worse.”

“What could be worse?” Wilford forced a laugh, holding gauze against the wound, starting to wrap it.

“Things like us.” Dark flinched, and Wilford readjusted the pressure of his hands. “Things like _me_.”

In silence, Wilford wrapped the wound as tightly as he could, running through theories. Human-sized claw marks, the sudden emergence of fan art, Dark’s growing fangs and swinging moods: none of it fit neatly into any one explanation. 

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re theorizing.” Dark watched as Wilford tied a knot, then reached out to help him sit up. “It’s painful watching you think.”

Wilford hauled Dark upright, studying his face. Dark leaned back heavily, jaw clenched, skin stark white. “Y’know,” Wilford breathed, sitting back, “a ‘thank you’ would be nice.”

“For?” Dark managed to scoff, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“Saving your ass.”

“Never.”

“That’s what I expected.” Wilford shook his head, starting to scrape the first aid kit back together, the danger passed. A moment to breathe.

Dark gasped, a jab of pain through his ribs. “Will—”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Wilford muttered, head lowered. 

“No, Will—” Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the windows. 

Finally catching on, Wilford looked up to see Dark bracing himself against the couch, eyes blacked out, veins traced in the corruption of miasma: looking for all the world like a demonic deer caught in headlights. “Wh-what?”

“It’s coming.” The rumble of thunder, and the room went dark. 

* * *

_It’s a brilliant game you play_  
When you lock yourself away  
And you make me fight for you, you, you  


* * *

“Just let me in.”

“You can’t help.”

“Dark, I—”

“No one can help.” Dark slammed his door shut, and the lock clicked behind him.

Wilford let out a breath he didn’t know that he’d been holding, a puff of frustration. “Dark, just—” the rest of his sentence was lost in banging, Dark’s closed door rattling like the vestiges of a scream. 

Wilford reached out as if to knock, hand pressed against the door. “Dark,” he said again, almost a whisper, almost a plea. Dark didn’t respond, the inside of his room falling suddenly, irrevocably silent. 

With a thump, Wilford slid to the ground, back against the wall. “Look,” he said aloud, talking to no one, “I can’t help, but I want to try, okay? We’re partners, Darky, and if you have to put up with my shit, I have to put up with yours. That’s just how it works.”

Not a sound from the other side of the door, and Wilford sighed. 

He sat for a moment longer, fighting a wave of bitterness.

“You’re not special, you know. And whatever shit your aura’s doing isn’t special.”

Silence, but different. As if something was listening. The pressure, now, of saying the right thing.

“You’re an _ass_ , Dark.” Wilford got to his feet, shooting a glare at the closed door. “You hear me?” 

Defeated stillness, and it was that, more than anything else, that pushed Wilford over the edge. Not months of being pushed away, or weeks of not knowing whether Dark was alive or dead, or even Dark dragging broken limbs and bloodstained teeth back home with him. It was defeat, heavy in the air.

“ _Fuck you._ ” Wilford kicked at the door, as hard as he could.

He rocked back, curling his foot to his chest, fairly certain that he’d broken a toe. “Forget it,” Wilford muttered, starting to hop-shuffle away. Whatever Dark was doing, if he didn’t want help, he wouldn’t get it. Wilford wasn’t about to be somewhere he wasn’t wanted.

When the door finally unlocked, Wilford wasn’t around to hear it. 

* * *

_I can’t keep you above water  
I can’t drag your soul to shore_

* * *

“You are _not_ allowed to die.”

Dark didn’t respond, limp against Wilford’s arms, and Wilford gritted his teeth. The tiny warehouse was splattered with the blood of monsters, more numerous, but not more powerful. Together, he and Dark had taken care of them all. 

It was too little, too late, and Dark had taken too many bullets.

“Stand _up_.”

“I said, stand. Up.”

“Dark, we have to go, you have to get up.”

“Dark.”

“Dark, _please_.”

Wilford wasn’t sure when he’d collapsed to the ground, holding Dark close. The room was empty, echoing, blood slowly dripping down the walls. They’d fought hard enough, it was time to go home. It was time to rest. 

Not like this. 

“You _dick_.” Wilford pushed Dark down, laying him flat against the floor. One hand over the other, Wilford sat back on his heels and pushed down hard. One, two, three, four. He sang the song in his head as he pushed, hoping Dark’s ribs wouldn’t break: _stayin’ alive, dah dah dah dah, stayin’ alive_ — “C’mon, breathe, Darky.”

A snap, one of his ribs cracking; but Dark was getting paler, and his chest wasn’t moving.

“I’m not gonna kiss you,” Wilford muttered, but he leaned down to see if Dark was breathing or not anyway. He was, thankfully, a slow puff of air leaving his lips. Wilford started pumping Dark’s chest again, harder, feeling his chest spring in and out. 

One, two, three, four. Pressing down was somehow getting easier, and Wilford wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “Dark.” Those weren’t hot tears springing to his eyes, just sweat, just pain. “We have to keep going.”

Dark’s breathing was slowing, and Wilford felt his hands start to sink into his chest. Dark was getting lighter, ever so slightly see-through. 

“We have to keep going.”

Wilford wasn’t sure how long he knelt over Dark’s body, pumping his heart, hands slowing from desperation, then fatigue, then acceptance. 

He sat back, sweating and suddenly, irrevocably alone.

This had been a long time coming, but it didn’t stop Wilford from stealing glances at Dark’s corpse, hoping he’d come back, hoping that he would just _get up_.

Wilford wasn’t sure when he started talking, but once he did, he couldn’t stop. Every frustration, every regret unsaid, echoing back to him in the rust-stained air. 

“Dark, I’m sorry. No, I’m not, you were the worst partner I’ve ever met. Thanks for everything. Thanks for nothing. I just… _fuck_ , don’t do this…”

The warehouse grew silent, Wilford’s voice no longer enough to fill a space meant for two.

“You think you’re getting rid of me that easy?”

“Dark?”

“Aww, you’re almost _sweet_ , Warf—” The rest of Dark’s half-wheezed sneer was lost as Wilford stumbled upright, breathing hard.

“What the _hell_ , Dark?”

Dark coughed, a little less translucent, and started to sit up. “Nice to see you too.”

“You-you—” Wilford waited until Dark had sat up, wincing. He was broken. He shouldn’t be alive. 

And yet, Wilford took Dark’s hand to haul him to his feet, and Dark was solid. Alive. _Still here_. 

“Will?” Dark paused, looking him full in the face. “Are you…”

“Let’s go.” Wilford looked away, eyes like flint. “Just. Let’s go.”

And Dark, for the first time, was silent.

* * *

_Don’t know how to fix a sinking ship  
Or win a losing war_

* * *

“It’s been four months, a week, and three days.”

“Dark, there’s nothing we can—”

“Shut _up_.” Dark paced back and forth, on the verge of ripping his hair out. “We need a video.”

“We’ll be fine,” Wilford muttered, spinning his knife between his fingers. “They won’t let us—”

“Oh, yeah?” Dark rounded on him, sneering. “They created that stupid doctor, they’re latching on to other characters, they’re—” he cut himself off, starting to pace again. 

Wilford watched him, mustache twitching, silent. 

Dark paused, glaring. “Do you have a better idea?”

“A better idea than breaking into our creator’s apartment, killing and-or maiming him, and taking over his channel?” Wilford stood to stand nose-to-nose with Dark, matching him pound-for-pound. “Yeah. Yeah I do.”

Dark’s eyes flickered, black to brown and back again. A smile, slow and dangerous and too, too familiar. “Let’s hear it then, Will.”

* * *

_It’s a heavy load to carry  
And I can’t hold on much more_

* * *

“And then, BOOM!” Wilford fell back, laughing, and Dark and Dr. Iplier looked at each other uneasily. “It exploded, and we got away!” Wilford tapped his knife on the table, always in his hand. “Isn’t that fantastic, Doc?”

“Uh, yeah.” Dr. Iplier laughed, avoiding Wilford’s eye. “Fascinating, Will. Do you think that might have been overkill—”

“Nonsense,” Wilford hopped up from the table, careless. “There needs to be _some_ showmanship, gents.” With a bow, Wilford excused himself, and waltzed out of the room. 

“I see what you mean,” Dr. Iplier said, turning to Dark. “He’s…”

Dark folded his arms over his chest, shooting a glare at Wilford’s abandoned seat. “He’s getting worse.”

“What was he like… before?” 

“There isn’t really a ‘before,’ Doc.” Dark drummed his fingers on the table. “We just kind of exist.”

“Yeah.” Dr. Iplier looked away. “But _now_ —”

“You don’t know what we’ve seen, okay?” Dark got up from the table to pace, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I can hardly remember what we’ve seen.”

“That’s…”

“It doesn’t matter what happened,” Dark muttered, scuffing a socked foot along the floor. “What matters is that Will is this… affected.”

“What about you, Dark?”

“Like I said,” Dark growled, glaring at him. “What matters is Will.”

Dr. Iplier didn’t press the subject, looking away. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

Dark threw his hands up. “Something. Anything. I can’t afford for my partner—for _Will_ to be like this.”

“I’ll talk to him. Would that help?”

“Doubt it.”

“Dark, I need you to work with me here.”

“Look,” Dark sighed, sitting down, running his hands over his jeans. “I need someone that can go into a situation with me and not get us killed, okay? Like last week, there was that gang of figments, whatever they call themselves, _Darkiplites_ —”

“Dark.” Dr. Iplier interrupted as gently as he could, spotting the train of thought hurtling towards a brick wall. “You and Will have worked together for what, two years?”

“Going on three,” Dark grudged, looking pointedly at the floor. 

“And you said he’s been deteriorating since the day you met?” Dr. Iplier took a glance at his notes, trying to ignore the way that Dark’s aura was starting to swarm him, gray and black and buzzing in his ear.

Dark scowled at nothing, looking towards the door that Wilford had disappeared thorough. “What’s your point, Doc?”

Dr. Iplier stood, gathering up his paper and pen, and Dark jumped. “My point,” Dr. Iplier half-heartedly snapped, pushing his chair in, “is that you’re both idiots.”

Dark’s aura plucked at the Doctor’s sleeves, restrained anger. Dark knocked his chair over in his hurry to stand, glaring straight at Dr. Iplier. “That doesn’t _help_.”

“Get used to it,” Dr. Iplier said, barely looking back. 

“I—you—” Dark sputtered in anger, fists curling and uncurling.

“News flash, Dark, he’s not getting ‘better,’ and neither are you.”

“I am perfectly _fine_ ,” Dark managed, teeth bared.

“Right,” Dr. Iplier laughed, harsh and short. “And Wilford’s perfectly sane.” Dark started to protect again, but Dr. Iplier held up a hand. “Save it. The two of you are only going to get worse from here.”

“I’m not—”

“Get used to the madness, Darky.” An uncharacteristic jab, and the Doctor swept out of the room. 

* * *

_On the surface it looks perfect  
Underneath it’s just a perfect storm_

* * *

“Yeah, okay, _what_ did you do?”

“I shorted out the power.”

“Okay, that’s not as bad as I—”

“And flooded the basements, and I think the roof took some structural damage.” Dark giggled, watching Wilford and Dr. Iplier’s faces transition from concern to shock. “We’re practically guaranteed a video, now.”

“I like the way you think, Darky—”

“Are you _joking_?” Dr. Iplier threw his hands up in frustration, turning to pace the room. “Dark, you’ve made it harder, if anything, to get a video up.”

“What’re you talking about?” Dark grinned ear to ear, even as his aura started to coil heavy around his shoulders.

“Yeah, what’re you talking about?” Wilford turned, changing the tide. “Doc, Dark is right. We need to go bigger.”

“No, Dark is not right.” Dr. Iplier whipped around, his own magic starting to shoot from his fingers, electric blue. “What you two are doing is dangerous, unsustainable, not to mention downright _stupid_ —"

“You just don’t want us to get more power, is that it?” Dark practically lunged forward, and Wilford was suddenly caught in the middle. “You’re just jealous, a one-off video with unlikable characters and transparent figments—”

“Dark, Dark.” Wilford talked over him, a hand on his arm. “That’s not—”

“No, it is.” Dr. Iplier stopped, tuning to face the two of them. “Let’s hear it, Dark. What am I?”

“Doc—”

“Will.” Dark leaned forward, a predator in every sense of the word. “You stay out of this, hmm? The Doctor and I have a gambit to settle.”

“Go on, then.” Dr. Iplier folded his arms, sneering, some gossamer thread breaking between the three of them. 

“You’re a two-bit physician who thinks he’s better than the two of us,” Dark spat, gesturing violently between him and Wilford, “just because he doesn’t have _ambition._ You’re only ever a step away from fading, and you’re too chicken to do anything about it. You—” Dark took a step forward, pointing a finger, “are _in my way_ , and you’d better get out before I take you out myself.”

“Do you _want_ us to leave?” Dr. Iplier matched Dark toe to toe, stepping level with Wilford, who looked as if he’d very much like to disappear. 

“I don’t care,” Dark growled, taking a half step back. 

“ _Us_?” Wilford repeated, shooting a glance at Dr. Iplier.

“Us.” Dr. Iplier took a deep breath. “Dark, you’re out of control.”

“You’re better than this,” Wilford muttered, and Dark shot a glance at him, incredulous. 

“You can’t possibly be siding with him, Warfstache.”

“Wilford and I have been talking—”

“Oh, sure,” Dark sneered, aura fully obscuring his corner of the room. The smoke snaked out, fear hanging palpable in the air. “You talk, and talk, but you’re both _worthless._ Just listen to me, the both of you, and everything would be so much simpler—”

“Dark—” Wilford cut him off, starting to shake with anger, “—who the _hell_ do you think you are?”

[Continue?](https://egoiplier-shenanigans.tumblr.com/post/165424930605/killing-type-anon-i-love-your-stories-if-you)

**Author's Note:**

> Continue? https://archiveofourown.org/works/12114252


End file.
